


(I'm Not a Princess) This Ain't a Fairytale

by writewithurheart



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Behind the Scenes, Book 1: King of Scars Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, What-If, Zoya is Bi, exists within canon, rated mature for language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-28 22:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writewithurheart/pseuds/writewithurheart
Summary: A What If story: What if Nikolai and Zoya met when they were children. What if after the Rift expanded into Novokribirsk, she went to the port instead of Os Alta and found her way on to a pirate ship?
Relationships: (eventual Nikolai Lantsov/Zoya Nazyalensky), Nikolai Lantsov & Zoya Nazyalensky, Zoya Nazyalensky/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I was rereading Siege and Storm, and I had a thought: What if Zoya was on the ship that came to rescue Mal, Alina and Sturmhond from the Darkling? Which led to a spiral backwards to "how would they have met? how would they become friends? what would that change in their lives?" So I started writing a thing. It's turned out longer than I planned and other love interests have cropped up along the way, so here is the first installment!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

Zoya jumps at the voice and spins around quickly. Her hands fall from where she was using her wind to splash the water in the ornate marble fountain at the center of the garden. It’s a trick she discovered in the library while trying to figure out how to refine her control over her wind. She liked the feeling of completeness being able to summon gave her. It made her feel powerful, strong. It was something to get her noticed, something even better than her looks, which had only brought her trouble. Her mother valued her looks more than she valued her own daughter, but with her summoning ability, Zoya could be more than her mother ever imagined. It was her key to everything. 

“What are you doing?” The boy asks curiously. His head tilts in curiosity, blonde hair glinting in the sun. His clothes are rumpled just like the boys from her village but she can tell they’re finer, the material richer. The boy beside him, wringing his hands nervously, resembles the villagers she remembers much more. 

“Who are you?” She asks, words brazen. As a Grisha, she should probably be more demure around a noble. She heard the others whisper about treading lightly, but Aunt Lilyana had told her to hold her head high and that is what she was going to do. 

“He’s the prince,” the second boy says, finally having found his voice. 

Zoya stares at him. “You don’t look like a prince.” 

“What’s a prince supposed to look like?” the prince asks as he watches her in fascination. 

She frowns, unsure how to answer. If he is a prince, she doesn’t want to upset him. “I...I don’t know. Fancy and snobbish.” 

The other boy laughs. “She’s got you there.” 

The prince scowls at him. “Hey.” 

“Well maybe not you, but…,” his courage runs out and he can’t complete the sentence. He turns back to Zoya. “I’m Dominik by the way.” 

“Zoya Nazyalensky.” She draws herself up as tall as her nine years will allow. 

“There you are, Sobachka, with your misfit friend,” a new voice calls, this one dripping with the disdain she always imagined a prince’s voice would have as he looked down on his subjects. 

The other boy - Dominik - bows and Zoya mimics him hurriedly. Crown Prince Vasily she has seen before and she recognizes his voice from when he burst into her first combat class and started throwing out orders. Botkin had bowed and scraped to him even as he had him subtly removed from the training ground. It was different from the Darkling, who was respected and revered. The prince was neither of those things. 

Zoya’s eyes flick to the prince who had first interrupted her training. Prince Vasily had called him Sobachka, which would have to make him Prince Nikolai Lantsov. Even in the Little Palace classrooms, she heard the nickname of the troublesome prince who caused mayhem and wasn’t afraid to wander onto the grounds of the little palace. It was his reaction she was interested in. He didn’t seem much pleased at his brother’s appearance, in fact he looked annoyed. 

“And who is this?” 

She flinched as his attention turned to her. She raised her head in what she hoped was a dignified manner. Her voice still shakes a bit this time even as she stares at a point over his shoulder, not quite brave enough to look him in the eye. “Zoya Nazyalensky, Squaller.” 

His lip curls and he turns away. “Still playing with the drabble, Sobachka. And in the royal gardens no less. What would Mother say?” 

Zoya glances around the garden nervously. She hadn’t been concerned earlier when Prince Nikolai and Dominik had found her, but now she senses with mounting horror the full impact of the mistake she’s made. She had just liked the flowers. And the gardener hadn’t said anything.

Prince Nikolai looks mutinous, like he wants to shout back at his brother, but he glances sideways at Dominik before hanging his head. “I just wanted to show them the roses.” He hangs his head meekly. 

Prince Vasily lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Very well. Just make sure they know not to be here on their own. Mother would not like it.” With that, Prince Vasily turns on his heel and stalks away. 

Zoya turns back to the Prince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

Prince Nikolai rolls his eyes. “Ignore Vasya. He’s a prick.” 

Zoya’s eyes widen in shock at his language. “I couldn’t possibly.” 

“As long as I’m with you it’s fine. What were you doing with the water?” he asks. His contrite air from earlier is replaced with fascination. She can see the wheels turning behind his clever eyes. She thinks for a moment that he’s the kind of pretty people say she is. His looks will be able to get him whatever he wants. He changes like the wind. 

She wonders if it annoys him as much as it annoys her.

Zoya turns back to the fountain and lifts her hands. She summons the wind and watches the water dance in the breeze again. The prince steps up to stand beside her and watch the spectral movement. 

“Amazing. You’re using the wind to disrupt the water running through the fountain. Not the water, right?” He asks. 

She nods. “Yes, your highness.”

“Nikolai,” he corrects. “Call me Nikolai. That is amazing. And you learned how to do this in the Little Palace.” 

Zoya bites her lip and wonders if she can tell him the truth. He stares at her expectantly, practically bouncing in place in excitement. “The books,” she finally admits with a sigh, “in the library. It’s an exercise for control. I wanted to practice away from prying eyes,” she confesses as she watches the water dance. 

“Smart,” Nikolai says and he elbows her. “You’ll be a great Squaller one day.” 

Her heart swells in pride, basking in his praise. “I know.” 

He laughs. “I don’t doubt it.” Nikolai glances at Dominik. “We have to go. You should probably get back to the Little Palace before someone else catches you. See you again soon, Zoya Nazyalensky.” 

She bows to him and races off with a skip in her step. She’s made a friend. Her first friend in Os Alta. Things are looking up. 

* * *

Nikolai fiddles with his little bits of machinery, enjoying his precious few moments of peace where he doesn’t have to play the part of charming child. He gives the thin piece of metal a tiny twist and tosses it into the air. The tiny propeller keeps it aloft for just a moment and then it starts to fall, reminding him rather caustically of his first attempts at charming members of the court. Before he learned the tricks of small talk with nobles.

It falters and drops toward the ground. Moments before it lands on the grass, a breeze sweeps it up and lifts it back into the air. He grins and turns to look over his shoulder, towards the garden entrance closest to the Little Palace where he spies a familiar face framed in unruly black hair.

It’s been three years since they first met in this same garden. Vasily got him separated from Dominik when he ratted Nikolai out to their parents, but Vasily never thought twice about Zoya. Grisha were just servants to him and unlike Dominik, their friendship didn’t distract Nikolai from his duties. 

“Didn’t think you’d be able to get away today,” he says, moving over so she can sit beside him on the bench. 

“We’re going on a hunt,” Zoya announces. She sits primly on the edge of the bench. She vibrates with barely contained energy, like a wind held in place that’s ready to break free. “Botkin cleared me for it today. I was the only one my age invited. There’s this tiger that the Darkling says is going to a powerful amplifier.” 

Ah, yes, the Darkling. Nikolai resists the urge to roll his eyes at Zoya’s obvious crush. She’s always trying to catch his attention and seems to preen under it. Nikolai doesn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. “An amplifier for you?” 

She deflates a little and sinks into the bench. “No. Probably not. Probably one of the more experienced Grisha. I just hope it’s not Ivan.” 

He chuckles, knowing exactly who she means. “Lets hope.” 

“How’s the ball?” 

Nikolai groans and runs a hand over his face. “Just a bunch of preening royals. Vasily returned from the front for it. He’s strutting around like a peacock.” He grins. “You should have seen his face when he realized I had charmed the whole court. He looked like he had eaten something rotten.” 

Zoya raises an eyebrow. “So it’s working then?” 

She’s gotten better at the look of skeptical disdain although it’s not quite perfected yet. Nikolai throws his arm over the back of the bench. “Yeah. It’s working. It’s draining but it’s working.” He looks down at his hand. There’s a thin scar on the side of his thumb he got working on Dominik’s family’s farm. It reminds him about those days working hard long after his calluses have disappeared. 

“When I’m conscripted, I’m going to ask to be assigned to the lower ranks, just like any Ravkan.” He says suddenly. He turns to look at her. “I’m going to move up the ranks like any soldier.” 

Her gaze is too knowing as she surveys him in the dim light of the garden. “With Dominik.” 

He nods. 

“You know,” she says slowly, “when I was younger, I couldn’t wait until I could join the army, to escape from my mom. I was always fascinated by military history.” 

“Zoya the soldier. Why am I not surprised?” 

She shrugs. “Seemed like a good way to take control of my life. But not a soldier. A commander.” 

Nikolai grins. “Dreaming big. Love that.” 

She flips her hair over her shoulder. “I’m going to leave my mark on this world. If you could do anything,  _ be _ anyone, what would you be?” 

He contemplates the question. Since he met Dominik’s family, he’s always thought he would be content working with his hands, working in a lab. He’s not made for a life of idleness, not that anyone in his life can understand that, except maybe Zoya. Zoya fights and learns and challenges, but even she exceeds him in her studies of strategy and thought practices. 

But ever since Vasily ruined his getaways, Nikolai has been focused on helping Ravka. That’s what he wants to do, to help his people. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do that yet, but he knows the key is getting as many people as he can on his side. He’s learned the power of openness and friendliness, of making alliances. As a prince he has power and he has powerful friends. Helping keep Dominik’s brother safe is only the beginning.

“I want to make a difference,” he finally answers. “I want to use my brain, my abilities, to help Ravka.” 

“So why not be an officer?” she asks. “Couldn’t you do more as an officer?” 

“No,” he says firmly. “How can I help the people if I don’t know what they want? That’s the problem with the royals. They’re too separate.” 

“And you’re going to change that. All by yourself?”

He frowns. “I’m going to try.” 

She huffs. “Good luck with that.” 

“Don’t doubt me, Nazyalensky. I might not have a solid plan yet, but I’ll get there.” 

Zoya sends another breeze around the garden. “And what about the Grisha?” 

He frowns. “They’re Ravkan too, aren’t they?” 

“People are scared of us, of what we can do.” A troubled expression crosses her face. 

“Then that’s something else we’ll have to work on,” Nikolai returns easily. 

She looks doubtful, even as she continues to send swirls of wind through the air. 

“You’re getting better at that.” 

Zoya glares at him and then drops her hands. The air stills and the coolness she’d created disappears. “You’ll write. Won’t you?” 

“So much that you’ll tire of me.” 

She snorts. “If you say so, your highness.” 

He grins. “I need my strategist to help me figure out how I’m going to change the world.” 

She flushes. “Flatterer.” 

“You love it.”

* * *

Her back still aches on occasion where the flesh was shredded by the tiger and where she refused to let the Healers mend it. She’s aware that it was pride that stopped her, pride in the approval her actions had garnered from the Darkling. She’d always wanted to be one of his favorites, loved for something other than her looks. She knew she was beautiful - enough people had commented on it - but taking down the tiger was the first time she felt  _ seen _ as more than just a pretty face. 

She rides that high as they reach the city limits of Os Alta. She holds her head up as they ride through the city and right up to the Little Palace. In the weeks that follow, She basks in the awe she sees as the whispers spread and more and more of the Grisha see the cuff on her wrist. Her agemates look on with jealousy or awe. Those who felt they deserved the chance are bitter, but even their spite can’t get her down. She has the approval of the Darkling. 

Nothing will dampen her pride. 

She takes a lesson from Nikolai and struts with purpose through the Little Palace. She carries that swagger with her to her lessons, the library, and to the cafeteria. She has irrefutable proof that she belongs here, that it wasn’t just some fluke that happened when her mother attempted to marry her off. She’s a Squaller, a powerful one. 

There’s approval in the Darkling’s eyes when he sees her in combat practice with Botkin, when he sees her use the amplifier she won in the air over the lake. Every nod of approval, every word of encouragement and every longing gaze she channels into her work. She will be the best or she will be nothing. 

She’s so enraptured with her new celebrity status that she doesn’t mark the loneliness for what it is at first. 

So many Grisha surround her at all times - desperate to sit beside her or to hear her tale - that she forgets what it’s like to be able to actually talk to someone. Her bravado is what they want, not to hear her feelings or her doubts. For them, she has to maintain her carefully established facade of capable detachment. If she shows weakness, the jealous etherealki will tear her to pieces. The rest of the Grisha either revere her, detest her or are waiting for her to fail. Either way, she still has to be perfect. 

Then the letters come. With NIkolai gone to tour the kingdom at 14, sent away to avoid the war, Zoya slowly finds that she’s left by herself despite being surrounded by the entirety of the Second Army. He writes her at least once a week, letters full of frivolous things and his thoughts about how he’s going to charm this baron or that general. His thoughts on strategy and his role as a prince and second son in society. 

She thinks he has it easy. The amplifier has granted her honorary status and renown, It’s thrown her to the top of her class and an envy of others. Graduated Grisha look down on her as her classmates look up. To them she’s an upstart, someone who took their opportunity. She might be starting to understand Nikolai’s own preoccupation with his position and how to use his power. She also thinks that because he’s been born with his position, he doesn’t understand what it is to fight for a position and then to have to struggle to keep it. 

It isn’t until weeks later that she realizes she wants to share what she’s feeling - her hopes and dreams and all that - with someone. Nadia and Marie are happy to simper and swoon and play nice with her. She finds she enjoys a captive audience, girls her own age who she can whisper with in private. She trusts that until she overhears them whispering in the library when they’re supposed to be studying strategy. 

“Like she’s really so special. She probably tricked him somehow into giving her the amplifier. Leoni said…”

She stares at the book of military strategy in front of her. They don’t know she’s on the other side of the bookshelves. She’d been coming to join them at their table when she picked up on Marie’s whisper, which carried the salaciousness of gossip and rumor.

The words blend together so she can’t make sense of them as Zoya feels the burn of tears at the corner of her eyes. The book cover is blur, illegible in her hands. Zoya straightens, takes a deep breath and flips her hair over her shoulder. She rounds the edge of the book shelf and drops the tome in her hand on the table with a deafening crash in the otherwise quiet library. Nadia and Marie freeze as they catch sight of her. 

She smiles tightly. “If you spent as much time studying as you do gossiping, you might actually make something of yourself. Instead, you’re just…,” she draws out the pause ensuring she has the attention of every member of their order before she delivers her scathing, “ordinary.” 

The scandalized gasps are a wonderful soundtrack as Zoya turns on her heel and strides from the library. Her tears have been banished, but so has her focus. She sees no point in remaining here. She throws a short burst of air at the doors ahead of her and marches to her room, her emotions reigned in tightly by iron control until she reaches the dormitory. 

She drops on her bed and angrily reaches for her writing paper. With harsh strokes, she starts the letter the same as always and then stalls at the name. 

Aunt Lilyana wouldn’t appreciate her triumph, not the way she wants. She’ll counsel her on making friends and trying to be understanding. Her pen hovers over the blank space. She gives in to the sudden mad desire to write Nikolai Lantsov. He’ll listen and he won’t judge. He’s the only person she can think of who would understand the need to learn how to navigate layers of power. He’s bemoaned the need to play nice with royals and generals alike. He can listen to her struggles without patronizing. 

Zoya pauses in her description of events. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so curt with Nadia and Marie. She doesn’t dislike them, after all. She needs her Grisha to know she can handle herself. It’s like a war strategy, she realizes. Having the Darkling’s acceptance gives her some credibility. So she needs to get the rest of the Grisha’s respect. 

She’s at a loss for how to do that exactly, so she writes her concerns in her letter, asking for advice from the only person she would dare. The letter itself is closer to a journal entry than anything she would ever actually send someone to read. It’s far too honest and vulnerable for her to trust anyone with it. 

Except maybe Nikolai. 

Zoya stares at the paper in consideration, her eyes locked on the blank spot where her signature belongs. This is the point where she could tear the letter up, light it on fire and forget she ever started it. The words leave her vulnerable, they expose her soul in a way that she would never share in a million years.

Zoya takes a deep breath and makes her decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nikolai and Zoya join the respective First and Second Armies

**Chapter 2**

“You’re an idiot.” 

Nikolai fires off another shot at the approaching line of Fierdans, ducking back down to look at Dominik. “You’re still insulting me so you can’t be hurt too bad.” He attempts to stand and falls back down as his legs buckle under him, pain shooting up his left leg. “Fuck.” 

“You were shot,” Dominik observes. He pops around the same barrier to fire at the enemy. “I say once again, your highness: You’re an idiot.” 

Nikolai laughs. “What did I do this time?” 

“You enlisted as an infantryman. If you took a commission like a normal royal, you’d be safe and sound right now.” Dominik reloads his pistol and relaxes back against the mound of dirt. “Do you know what I’d do to have a commission like that? You’re an idiot.” 

Nikolai sighs. “Well, you’re likely right about that. Incurable idiocy sounds about right. Do you think anyone will be relieved if I get killed off?” It’s a joke. Or rather he says it like it could be, but it’s truer than he would like to think. He’s the bastard son of a queen, one that’s spent his whole life barely clinging to legitimacy. His mother could be killed for treason and he would be discarded. It might have happened sooner if the king was actually competent. 

His mother told him the truth right before he marched off to enlist in the infantry. She’d sobbed into his shoulder about how much he was like his father, and how he was smart enough to survive. She’d begged him to accept a commission instead. Following Dominik into battle might in fact be the height of stupidity. It was apparently the only thing people agreed on. Commissions were just another part of the protective bubble he grew up in, but to every Ravkan they were also the difference between survival and death. Foot soldiers’ chance of survival was minimal and everyone knew it. 

Which was why he had to do it. He was clever and he was a survivor. He wanted to do better for the people of Ravka. How could the people of Ravka trust him if he didn’t fight with them, bleed with them, risk life and limb with them? He wouldn’t follow in Vasily’s footsteps and be a leader in name only. It’s the conviction that he would do better which keeps him going. 

He yanks the scarf from around his neck and ties it around his leg, slowing the flow of blood. “Did you know getting shot hurts like hell?” 

Dominik laughs beside him. “Oh really? Imagine that.” 

“We need to get back behind the line.” Nikolai looks around the field. He desperately needs medical attention, and he needs help to get back to the healers. “I can’t walk by myself.” 

Dominik glances over and looks lost. 

“I need you to get me behind the lines.” Nikolai prepares his own pistol and takes a deep breath as he prepares to stand. “There.” He points at an opening. “We move. On my mark. I’ll cover us. You just get me to help and I’ll make sure you get a damn medal.” 

“I deserve more than a medal for putting up with you for so long,” Dominik mutters as he pulls Nikolai’s arm over his shoulder. 

NIkolai’s chuckle is broken by a pained groan as he rises and the bullet in his leg is jarred. “I can’t really argue with that.” 

Dominik continues to curse his name as they hobble back towards the rest of their regiment. Nikolai fires over his shoulder, covering their retreat. His eyes scan the field, trying his hand at figuring out their chances. He reckons they’ll win this battle. It won’t be without large casualties, but Fjerda won’t win this battle. He and Dominik just need to survive this. 

As they stumble to the healer’s tent, Nikolai wonders why the second army rarely works in conjunction with the first army. A Grisha among their ranks would help them push the Fjerdans back quicker, with a lower death toll. However, he’s also seen the inherent distrust of Grisha by the Ravkans, as if the Grisha weren’t Ravkan too. 

Dominik drops Nikolai in a bed and then collapses beside him. The rest of the tent is full of moaning men and Nikolai takes a few moments just to breathe deeply through the pain. The rush of battle is leaving his system with only pain left behind. It builds in his veins and Nikolai opens his eyes when a healer gets to them. 

“What have we got here?” the medic asks. The lack of kefta hints at a normal healer, but on the front lines it's hard to tell. 

Nikolai points to his leg with the tie wrapped tightly around it. “Bullet. Leg. Don’t think it hit anything important.” 

The healer nods distractedly and starts to poke at the wound, looking a little green in the face, which isn’t inspiring confidence. Dominik leans forward from his chair. 

“You’re going to want to get a Grisha healer.” 

Nikolai shoots him a glare. “No. I’m sure Medic…” He looks at the man in question. 

“Roshnov,” the medic supplies, not looking up as he pulls out the tools he’ll need. 

“Medic Roshnov can handle it,” Nikolai finishes. He attempts to grin but it turns into a groan as the medic probes the wound with pliers and reaches for the bullet without so much as a warning. He yanks it out with a shout of triumph and reaches for the disinfectant. 

Nikolai curses as creatively as he can at the burn of the sterilizing liquid on his bullet wound. Maybe he overestimated the abilities of Medic Roshnov. At the very least, he has little to no bedside manner, which is not great but also, he reasons, not essential in battle conditions. He leans back on the cot and grips the sides of the bed as the medic starts to stitch him together, humming under his breath. 

“You’re an idiot,” Dominik repeats again. His head is turned away like he can’t watch the process, but his words seem to remind the medic that he’s here. 

“Oh, are you injured too?” 

Dominik shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 

“Then I’m supposed to send you back to your regiment. This area is reserved for the injured.” Medic Roshnov’s voice is curt.

“I would,” Dominik says pleasantly, with the practiced air of someone who’s had this conversation multiple times, running a hand through his hair, “but I’m in charge of his royal idiotness and making sure you don’t kill him.” 

Roshnov blinks and looks up at Nikolai. He finally seems to process who he’s working on. He starts to stutter something and then races off. Nikolai glares at his friend and looks back down at his injury. It’s not bleeding but it’s only partially closed. 

“You couldn’t have waited until he finished?” Nikolai resists the urge to probe the injury himself as a Grisha rushes over, accompanied by Roshnov. 

“Your highness, many apologies. Had I realized it was you, we would have sent a healer immediately.” Medic Roshnov bows several times, definitely over-compensating. 

“There’s no trouble,” Nikolai assures him with a wave of his hand. “Your bedside manner could use some work but you’ve treated the wound well. I would be grateful if you could finish stitching me up.” 

The healer has the sleeves of his kefta rolled up and is looking confused about his role now. 

“Wouldn’t you rather…” Medic Roshnov looks over at the healer, completely lost. 

“At this point, It doesn’t matter as long as you close the wound,” Nikolai says through gritted teeth, closing his eyes against the pain. 

“Just heal him,” Dominik says. “He’s just going to be annoyed that the two of you here are taking away from other patients’ care.” 

Nikolai glares at his friend despite the truth in his words. “Patch me up and get back to helping the rest of these good men. Ravkans deserve the best care.” He says the last sentence loud enough that others can hear. “If I had a problem with Medic Roshnov’s care,” he continues at a lower volume as the healer rests his hands over Nikolai’s wound, “then I would have asked for more. I’m just a soldier like any other.” 

“All due respect, your highness,” Dominik says with greatest sarcasm, “you’re not. You’re also an idiot.” 

The healer looks scandalized. Nikolai waves him away before he can respond with outrage that someone would talk to a prince like that. “I joined the infantry because I didn’t want special treatment. Or at least I wanted less of it. You should get going. There’s other soldiers in need of help.” 

The healer nods and scampers off. Medic Roshnov pauses for a moment before he awkwardly leaves when another medic shouts for him from across the tent. Nikolai turns to Dominik to find the man shaking his head. 

“I know, I know. I’m an idiot.” Nikolai stares up at the beige of the tent above them. “Medic Roshnov was good enough.” 

“He was barely passable. What if he nicked something and you bled out? Do you have any sympathy for me? I’d have to tell your parents!” The corner of his lips are tipped up in subdued amusement and NIkolai chuckles. 

“Yeah right. Our commander would have to tell my parents. You would have to tell Zoya.” He closes his eyes. 

“Zoya? That’s whose letters you’ve been mooning over?” Dominik sounds genuinely surprised. 

“Who did you think it was?” 

“I don’t know. Some high lady who wants to be princess? We see plenty of letters with that fancy perfume and trinkets, all swooning because of your dedication to your country.” Dominik pokes at his shoulder. 

Nikolai only resists rolling his eyes because that would require him to open them first. “All those ladies want a prince, and the only ones writing to me have no idea who I am.” 

“Only because you don’t let them see the real you.” Dominik sounds sour and Nikolai opens his eyes. 

“Most of them are only looking for a pretty title and pretty jewelry. They think if they pay attention to me now, I’ll remember them fondly or something like that.” 

“But not Zoya?” Dominik teases. 

Nikolai snorts. “I’d stop that now if I were you. She’ll find out and you’ll be on the wrong side of a windstorm.” 

Dominik laughs. “I don’t doubt it. What do the two of you talk about anyway?” 

“We debate.” Nikolai stares up at the canvas of the tent above him. 

“Debate? Seriously?” 

He nods. “Politics, strategy, the merits of various foods.” The look he gets from Dominik screams skepticism. Nikolai chuckles. “I’m serious. She’s got some fascinating ideas on war and what Ravka needs, and it’s always good to have another perspective.” 

“That’s just…” Dominik shakes his head. “You know, I thought you were trying to woo her, but this is so much more you. Of course you would take a beautiful girl and talk politics to her.” 

NIkolai grins. “She’s the one who started it with that first letter.” He’ll never forget it. It still cropped up now and again: the old argument of whether it was better to be feared or loved. He thought love to be the superior emotion, but Zoya made a steady argument that leadership requires some level of fear to garner respect. They never did reach a steady point with that and had branched out into other subjects as interests and learning expanded. 

Now that they were both on the front - albeit with two different armies - they compared notes on military strategy. Personally, he found her a little over-preoccupied with the Darkling but he chalked that up to her school girl crush. He didn’t quite get it. The Darkling just creeped him out. Others excused it as the nature of his Grisha power, but Nikolai couldn’t help the thought that it came from something far more sinister. 

“You do realize your friendship with her is just another reason men are going to hate you, right?” Dominik asks, cutting through Nikolai’s thoughts. 

“I guess I’ll just have to continue to be my charming self.” He grins. “You know, it almost sounds like you’re jealous, Dominik.” 

“No.” 

“Does someone have a crush on Zoya?” He teases. Dominik flushes as Nikolai’s laughter fills the tent. He is never going to live this down. 

* * *

Zoya stands at the edge of the Shadow Fold - closer than any of the other Grisha will get - and stares into the Darkness of the Unsea. At sixteen, this is her first crossing. She’s spent the last several years training for the Second Army, and training for this opportunity. While she’d prefer to be more useful to her country - that she would be so vital that the Darkling needs to keep her close, to send her on special missions - this assignment is a right of passage. 

Every Grisha, no matter what class, spends time on the Shadow Fold. It is only there that they can truly see what they’re up against. It’s direct combat against a fearsome enemy. The Fjerdans might burn Grisha as witches, but the Shadow Fold will tear them apart. On the Shadow Fold, the First Army relies on the Grisha. It is where their power shines best, where a Grisha can prove herself. 

Zoya’s hand curls into a fist. The Darkling had told her before she left that he expected great things from her. She can still feel where his hand brushed her cheek and he smiled at her, paying her special attention. She’d felt the jealousy of her comrades as they marched out to join the Second Army on various fronts. She was special, she was favored. 

She turns her back on the Fold and scans the soldiers of the First Army that she’ll be ferrying across the Unsea. She scans the banners for some hint of Nikolai’s banner and deflates a little. She had hoped to show off her new status - not that he would be impressed. It’s harder to write and send letters while on the road and she hasn’t heard from him in a while. Her only assurance that he’s okay is the knowledge that if the prince had died, all of Ravka would know and mourn. 

_ But alive doesn’t mean okay _ , a voice whispers in the back of her mind. 

His last letter had been littered with ravings about the treatment on the front, about the ways he’d earned his men’s trust and his own promotion. His words were increasingly more realistic, more hardened as he endured war. Some of it came from learning how the normal enlisted men lived, and she knew the rest came from witnessing battle and death. 

Zoya runs her hand over the amplifier on her wrist and the tiger’s sad eyes flash before hers. 

“Nazyalensky! Stop staring into space. It’s time to take your position.” 

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and shoots the squallor she’s supposed to be apprenticed under a scathing look. He’s hardly anything special or he wouldn’t be stuck out here on ferrying duty. His ego seems to like putting newbies in their place but she’s not about to cower before the Shadow Fold. 

She glides over to the ferry and up the ramp. There are eyes on her: eyes that hold appreciation, hatred, jealousy. She lets them roll over her and refuses to cower. She knows the world takes pretty things and uses them, chews them up and spits them out. She refuses to be just a pretty thing. 

She stands on the deck of the ship and summons. It comes to her call. It comes without the push of her hands that she sees of the other squallers. She has plenty of thoughts about that, really, ones she holds inside that slip out as disdain at the worst possible times and never earn her any friends. It’s pitiful the way that training has slipped in the Little Palace. She’s heard other Grisha whisper about it behind her back, claiming that it’s proof of her power when really it’s just the product of long hours of practice. But then, the others like to think that she’s entitled and that everything comes easy to her. She lets them think that because it makes her all the more powerful in their heads. 

The cries of the vulcra create a palpable shift in the energy of the passengers. They tense and turn their attention to the sky. Zoya only allows herself a moment to look, to cast her eyes to the sky before she refocuses on her task. If she falters, the ship is lost. 

Terror and adrenaline push her through. The perilous journey goes relatively smoothly in that, while they are attacked, there are no casualties. They scrape by rather unscathed and land in Novokibirsk in good time. 

Zoya’s lips twitch up at the corners, but she schools her face as she rejoins her fellow Grisha on the port. She’d been happy for this assignment, overjoyed really, at the chance to see her aunt again after nearly seven years, since the day she was escorted to the palace. She barely hears the dismissal and the next scheduled crossing before she escapes down the street. 

In town, there are still eyes on her, but the curiosity is a nice change of pace. She follows the directions in her aunt’s letters, along routes she’s only ever seen on maps before and comes to a stop right in front of a small cottage. The garden that surrounds the humble house assures her that she’s in the right place. Aunt Lilyana has spent pages describing her garden as it changes from season. 

She smoothes her kefta and takes a deep breath before she marches forward and knocks on the door. 

“One moment!” A familiar voice calls from inside. 

Her heart races in her chest and she desperately wishes she’d been able to bring someone with her because she’s not sure she can handle the excitement. A moment later, Zoya tosses that thought away. Who could she have possibly brought who would understand? None of the Grisha saw her and none would understand what this meant to her. 

The door opens and Zoya blinks as her gaze is drawn downward to a little girl. The girl tilts her head and looks her over. “Who are you?” 

“Lada! What have I told you about answering-” 

Zoya lifts her eyes to meet her aunt’s equally blue ones. Her aunt’s voice fades as she covers her mouth in a gasp. 

“Zoya? Is that...is that you?” 

The smile that lights up her face feels like the first true smile she’s worn in years. It fills her whole body with warmth from the inside out and lifts her heart so it could float along the wind. “Auntie.” 

And then she’s crushed in a hug, held fast in two warm arms. Zoya closes her eyes and sinks into the feeling of love, wondering when she last allowed herself the comfort of human touch. The boys who taught her to kiss, who dragged her into dark corners gave her affection, but never love. The last person who doled out casual contact like it was air was Nikolai and she hasn’t seen him in person in years, not since before she left to get her amplifier. Even that couldn’t hold a candle to this. 

She wraps her arms around her aunt, only realizing belatedly that she hadn’t immediately responded. She buries her nose in her aunt’s hair and breathes in the deep floral scent. “I missed you, Auntie.” 

Aunt Lilyana hugs her tighter and then pulls back, wiping at tears. “Oh, goodness. The first time I’ve seen you in too long.” She reaches out a hand and cups Zoya’s cheek with a fond smile. “You look more lovely than the last time. This suits you, darling.” 

There’s a disgruntled cough from behind her aunt. 

Zoya steps around her and crouches to the girl’s height. “You must be my infamous cousin,” she teases. It seems she’s in too good a mood to lose her smile. “I’ve gotten your letters and I have to say: while the pastries wouldn’t keep during travelling, I did manage to bring you something.” 

From her kefta, she pulls a small envelope and holds it out to her cousin. Lada stares at it with big eyes. Her hands are hesitant as she takes it, as if it might break. 

“I got them from the palace gardener. Blue roses,” she explains to her aunt. There’s a faint gasp, but she continues. “He also included some specific instructions on care. Apparently they require love and a nurturing spirit.” 

“How did you get these?” Aunt Lilyana asks with soft-spoken awe. 

Zoya pushes down the swell of pride at choosing the perfect gift. “The gardener noticed they were my favorites, and I mentioned writing to you about the flowers in the garden.” The garden reminded her of better times, of the journey to Os Alta when her aunt pointed out and named the plants along the way. The palace garden was not the kind of place where you could braid the flowers into a crown, but Zoya treasured those similar moments. 

Aunt Lilyana pulls her into another hug. “My wonderful Zoya, this is an incredible gift. I knew you would make friends in the Little Palace.” 

Zoya smiles and hugs her back. Her aunt was always the optimist and she can’t bring herself to break her Aunt’s heart. 

“Well, come on. Come inside. How long are you here for?” Aunt Lilyana asks as she ushers Zoya inside. 

“As long as you’ll have me. I’m stationed at the crossing right now.” Zoya’s hand goes to her bag where she has more gifts concealed. It’s her gift, to repay her aunt for everything she’s done for her. Even though she’s never seen this cottage before, never met Lada, this feels like home in a way her mother and the Little Palace never could. 

Here she feels accepted, feels welcomed, without question. It’s home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. I'm going to do my best to post weekly. This story keeps growing and I'm really hoping you like what's happening.
> 
> Up Next: Nikolai leaves the army and Zoya comes into her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it. Feedback is appreciated. If you want to chat, you can find me on tumblr [here](writewithurheart.tumblr.com).
> 
> Up Next: Nikolai and Zoya head off to war, on different fronts and learn more about who they are. The letters continue.


End file.
